Frostborn: The World Gate (3 page)

“Remember,” said Kharlacht in his rumbling voice. “When facing a foe with a two-handed sword, your advantage must be speed, not strength. To prepare a blow with a weapon the size of a greatsword takes time, and you must seize that time to strike. A clever foe will make sure he is out of your reach, but a sloppy one may deliver himself to your grasp.”

“Especially if you call upon your soulblade for speed,” said Arandar. “Many new Swordbearers rely upon their blades to provide them with strength while overlooking the advantages of speed. It looks impressive to chop through shields and helmets with a single blow, but a quick thrust to the throat or another vulnerable spot will end a fight far more quickly and just as effectively.” 

“What about defense?” said Gavin. “I could parry the blow.”

Kharlacht shook his head. “A sword like mine was forged to cleave through shields. I have done it myself.”

“Could it cut through dwarven steel?” said Gavin. 

“No,” said Arandar, “but the impact might be sufficient to throw you off balance, or to break your left arm entirely. Good to avoid the blow if at all possible, or better yet, to strike before your foe can attack.” 

“Excellent counsel, Sir Arandar,” said Jager. The halfling’s deep voice always seemed so incongruous coming from such a short man. “Though you overlook the most effective way of killing any man.”

“What’s that?” said Arandar. From any other halfling, Calliande knew, Arandar would not have accepted such impudence. The two men had formed a peculiar sort of bond over their shared loathing for Tarrabus Carhaine and his servants in the Enlightened of Incariel. 

“Stab them in the back before they can fight back,” said Jager.

“It is effective,” said Mara.

“It hardly seems…knightly,” said Gavin. 

“It is not,” said Arandar, “when fighting mortal foes of flesh and blood. But when facing creatures of dark magic like urvaalgs or ursaars, it is best to attack without hesitation. Mortal foes can sometimes be swayed by mercy or reason. Creatures like the urvaalgs cannot. If they are allowed to attack, they will kill and kill until they are slain. Normal steel cannot stop them. Only a soulblade can defeat them. Therefore it is our responsibility, as Knights of the Order of the Soulblade, to defend the realm of Andomhaim from the creatures of dark magic.” 

Gavin nodded. “I understand.”

Arandar smiled. “Normally I would say that a man so young could not, but after seeing you fight at Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar, I think you can.”

Jager snorted. “Then why make him practice?” 

“Because I need to be better,” said Gavin.

“Because the discipline of the sword is a lifelong journey, Master Thief, and one that does not end until death,” said Arandar. “A man may become older and slower, but with diligence, his skill will increase. I would rather face an untrained man at twenty at the height of his strength than a master of the sword at sixty.” 

“As for me,” said Jager. “I would rather do neither. But I suppose that is why you are the Swordbearers and I am not.” He looked at Mara and grinned, holding out his arm. “Well, my dear, since all the others seem intent upon watching sword practice, shall we keep watch? It would do no good for Sir Gavin to be eaten by a giant spider before he become a master swordsman.” 

Mara laughed. “It would be tragic.” She glanced at Calliande. “We shall keep watch until Ridmark and Morigna return.”

Calliande nodded, and Mara and Jager disappeared through the gate. Kharlacht lifted his greatsword, and he and Gavin resumed their practice. Arandar and Caius watched from the side, calling out advice as Gavin dodged and swung, keeping away from Kharlacht’s massive blade with short bursts of speed fueled by Truthseeker. Gavin’s sword work had improved considerably in the months that Calliande had known him, and had become better yet since taking up Truthseeker. He was by no means a master swordsman, but someday he would become one of the most formidable fighters Calliande had ever met.

If he survived what was to come. 

Antenora moved to Calliande’s side, her brittle black hair hanging lose around her gray, gaunt face. The woman looked as if she had been dead for some time, but she had been alive for a very long time, ever since she had betrayed Arthur Pendragon and the Keeper on Old Earth long, long ago, and she had sought for redemption and death ever since.  When the Warden had opened his gate, Antenora had been able to cross from the threshold of Old Earth, arriving at last at Andomhaim to seek out the Keeper. Calliande had not been able to lift Antenora’s curse, but she had been able to make the ancient sorceress a promise. When the Frostborn were defeated, if the Frostborn were defeated, that would break the dark magic that had bound Antenora so long ago, and she could die at last. So far, at least, Antenora had been true to her word. 

“Keeper,” said Antenora. Her voice had a peculiar rasp to it, making her words sound worn and faded. “What are your commands?”

“Be ready,” said Calliande, though she had nothing for Antenora to do at the moment. “We may come under attack at any moment.”

“These spider-devils and their cultists,” said Antenora. “The urdmordar and the arachar orcs, as you named them. Are they so fearsome?” 

“They are,” said Calliande. “I have faced urdmordar before and prevailed, but I have no wish to do so again. They are strong enough that they could turn aside your fire magic with ease.”

“Though the arachar would have no such protection,” said Antenora. 

“They would not,” said Calliande.

They stood in silence for a moment, watching the orcish warrior and the young Swordbearer train together. At last Kharlacht traded with Caius, and the dwarven friar began instructing Gavin on the finer points of defending from a mace, interposed with frequent references to the Gospels. 

“Is it not impressive?” said Antenora in a quiet voice. 

“What is?” said Calliande.

“The skill of Gavin Swordbearer,” said Antenora, watching him. 

Sometimes Antenora surprised Calliande. The woman had lived for fifteen centuries, and those years had taken their toll upon her mind. Fissures riddled her memory, and her mood was often grim, even nihilistic. She had seen the horrors of Old Earth’s history, and if the Warden’s visions had been true, those horrors had been numerous indeed. 

Yet at time there were flashes of the young woman that Antenora had been long ago, glimpses of a wild, willful young woman…and Calliande wondered if she saw one of those flashes now. Antenora addressed Calliande as the Keeper, but she called the others by a rotating variety of nicknames.

She always called Gavin by name. 

“What is impressive about him?” said Calliande. 

“Behold his soulblade,” said Antenora. “It blazes with power in my Sight, and it bestows its power upon him. He is but a young man, and young men do not handle power well. Again and again I have seen this.”

“As have I,” said Calliande, remembering some of the nobles she had dealt with in centuries past. 

“I was a little younger than him,” said Antenora, closing her yellow eyes, “when I first began wielding magic, and look at the path of ruin upon which the power led me.” She opened her eyes again. “But not Gavin Swordbearer. Look. He has not grown proud, nor does he seek dominion or lordship over other men. Instead he seeks to serve, and accepts the counsel of his elders.”

“He has seen where the path of power for its own sake leads,” said Calliande, thinking of Gavin’s father Cornelius. Or of Tarrabus Carhaine and the Enlightened. “And even a Swordbearer is mortal, and we face death every day.”

“This is so,” said Antenora, watching Gavin as he dodged and ducked around Caius’s mace. He deflected the blows with his shield, rather than parrying with his soulblade or trying to block them with main force. “I have seen many warriors, but he shall be among the greatest of them.” 

“If I did not know any better,” said Calliande, “I would think you were becoming infatuated with him.”

She had said it half in jest, but any trace of emotion drained from Antenora’s face. 

“The time for that,” said Antenora, “is long, long past. Long before even you were born, Keeper. Long before the survivors of Arthur Pendragon’s realm came here. Such things were lost to me.” She reached back and drew the cowl of her long coat over her head. “That is as it should be.” 

Calliande opened her mouth to answer, and then blue fire flashed next to Antenora. The blue flames hardened into Mara, who blinked and looked around. 

“Mara,” said Calliande. “Is someone coming? The arachar?” 

Gavin and the others stopped, turning to face the gate. 

“No,” said Mara. “I think Ridmark and Morigna are returning.”

Calliande nodded and headed towards the gate, the others following her. Arandar and Gavin fell in behind her, soulblades ready, the swords shining with power to her Sight. They had taken to guarding her lately, watching over her as the Keeper of Andomhaim. She found it touching…and given how many of Shadowbearer’s minions sought her death, she also found it reassuring. 

The ruined gate faced east towards the forest, and as Calliande approached, she saw two figures climbing up the slope of the hill. One was Morigna, her bow in hand, her tattered cloak streaming behind her. The other was Ridmark, and he hurried up the hill with speed and confidence. A peculiar shiver of emotion went through Calliande at the sight of him. He was the only man she had ever kissed, though she had not known it at the time. She had been in love as a girl, centuries ago, but that had come to nothing…and that had been a childish infatuation compared to what she felt when she looked at Ridmark.

Calliande shoved aside the thought. She was the Keeper of Andomhaim, and she had a duty. Her life was not her own, and she had to defeat Shadowbearer, stop the return of the Frostborn, and root out the Enlightened of Incariel from Andomhaim. How she felt about Ridmark Arban had nothing to do with any of her tasks.

Besides, he was in love with Morigna. 

Though Calliande would always, always regret that on the day they had kissed, that they had not been left uninterrupted, that they had not…

“What news, Gray Knight?” said Arandar. 

Again Calliande pushed aside the maudlin thoughts, this time with success. There was work to be done. 

“Mara was right,” said Ridmark, his voice grim. “Those were indeed arachar orcs moving through the trees.”

“Were you able to avoid them?” said Calliande. 

“No,” said Ridmark. “They proved craftier than I hoped.”

“Craftier, perhaps,” said Morigna with a sharp smile, “but not as battle-crafty. We left a dozen slain in our wake, and none escaped to warn their false goddess.”

“False goddess?” said Caius, his marble-like blue eyes twinkling. “Dare I hope that you have come to the Dominus Christus at last?”

Morigna scoffed. “The arachar pray to a giant spider-demon. Whatever our differences, Brother Caius, I am sure we can agree that an urdmordar is an unworthy object of worship.”

“You’re in agreement on…anything?” said Jager, feigning astonishment. “If I look skyward, shall I see rain falling upwards and winged pigs soaring aloft?”

“The world will truly end,” said Morigna, “when some crisis arises and you do not have a glib remark ready at hand.” 

“Enough,” said Ridmark before Jager could fire back. “None of the arachar escaped. We are maybe a half-day from the banks of the River Moradel, if my reckoning is correct. If we hasten, we can avoid the urdmordar’s demesne and make our way to the river without drawing her notice. From there we follow the river south to Dun Licinia and Black Mountain.”

“I fear,” said Calliande, “that may not be possible.”

“Why not?” said Ridmark.

“A shroud of dark magic hangs over the forest,” said Antenora. “I have never seen its like…”

“Nor have I,” said Calliande.

“Given that the three of you all have the Sight,” said Morigna, “one hopes that you could come to a quicker consensus.” 

“I think the dark magic is a kind of ward,” said Mara, unruffled as ever by Morigna’s barbs. “Think of a spider’s web. If a fly lands upon the strands of the web, the spider knows.”

“Then this shroud of dark magic is such a web?” said Caius.

“I think,” said Calliande, “that the dark magic detects any blood spilled within the forest.” 

“That,” said Ridmark, “could be a…”

A chorus of furious cries erupted from the trees, and Ridmark whirled, his staff coming up. Dark shapes burst from the forest at the base of the hill, steel glinting in the morning sun. There were orcish warriors, dozens of them, and Calliande’s Sight saw the faint taint of the urdmordar venom in their blood. 

The warriors were arachar, all of them.

A half-dozen black-robed women walked at their head, their ragged robes stirring around them. The women moved with ghostly silence, and potent dark magic burned before Calliande’s Sight. With a cold shock she realized that the six women were spiderlings, the half-human, half-urdmordar daughters of a female urdmordar and a male human. 

The band of arachar and spiderlings came straight for the ruined fort.

“Prepare,” said Ridmark, “to defend yourselves.”

Chapter 2: Beastmen

Ridmark waited, his staff in hand, and the others readied themselves for battle.

Arandar and Gavin lifted their soulblades, the weapons glimmering with white fire in reaction to the dark magic around the spiderlings. Kharlacht raised his greatsword and Caius his mace, while Mara and Jager both drew the shortswords of dark elven steel they had taken from the Warden’s armory in Urd Morlemoch. Morigna set an arrow to her bow’s string, her black eyes darting back and forth as she considered the advancing arachar. Antenora remained motionless, but the symbols upon her black staff burned with a harsh yellow-orange light, a harbinger of the terrible fire she summoned in battle. Calliande gripped the worn staff of the Keeper, her green cloak and blond hair stirring about her in the cold wind coming down from the mountains. 

“Wait a moment,” said Ridmark. “I want to talk to them. Perhaps I can persuade them to let us pass.”